


Destroyed

by duffmansean



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Post-Apocalypse, Hurt Dean Winchester, Hurt Sam Winchester, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Permanent Injury, Wincest - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-02-09
Updated: 2013-02-09
Packaged: 2017-11-28 16:12:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,625
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/676337
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/duffmansean/pseuds/duffmansean
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for a fill in my hc_bingo  card: Loss of Vision.<br/>An AU set after 5.22.  There's wincest in later chapters.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Deafened

I. Deafened  
  
The apocalypse didn’t take years, or months, or even days. 

It took approximately forty-two minutes and five seconds, if Dean’s inner clock was still worth anything – which he certainly thought it was.  

His brother’s body lay motionless in the middle of Stull Cemetery, but Dean could just barely make out the tell-tale rise and fall of his chest as he breathed.   _Thank God_ … or something like that. 

It was then, and only then, that Dean really let himself feel it; the weight of what had happened, the wonders of what lay beyond the gates of that cemetery, the sheer agony of Bobby and Cas’ deaths, and the sick joy that Sam was still alive. 

To hell with the rest of the planet!  Who cared if the Winchesters were the only ones left alive?  At least it was  _the Winchesters_ , and not just  _a Winchester_.  Dean couldn’t care less about anything else anymore.  Nearly everything had been stolen away from him; why should he give a damn?

Crawling to the one thing that was still there, the one thing that he was apparently allowed to keep through all this mess, Dean asked, “Sammy?”

God, his voice was wrecked.  Lucifer had been rather enthusiastic about that ‘snapping bones’ thing.  Dean was pretty sure the left side of his face would never be the same – hell, he wondered if his cheekbone was even still intact. 

“Sam,” he tried again, pushing gently at his brother’s shoulder. 

Sam’s face was peaceful, lost in a dreamless sleep. 

Dean envied him that.

After the third time of saying his name and giving another, slightly harsher push, Dean’s brother slowly came to.  His eyes fluttered open, and the signature pout formed in his brow – it was such a ‘Sammy’ expression that Dean almost wept in relief.

Looking up at his brother, Sam frowned in confusion.  His eyes skittered over their surroundings, growing wider with every new horror as they took in the scattered remnants of the cemetery, the Impala, Bobby’s prone form… When he finally studied his brother’s face, his eyes grew so large, it was almost comical.

“Dean!” Sam yelped, sitting up and reaching out.  His fingers ghosted over the mauled ruins of Dean’s face.  “Oh God, Dean, I—I didn’t mean—he was too—so sorry—tried to fight—fuck, Dean.” The words tumbled out of him faster than his tongue could keep up with.  He tripped over his own syllables trying to apologize.

Reaching up, Dean took hold of Sam’s hands, shocked to find how violently Sam was shaking.  He just tightened his grip.  “Sam,” he said softly, despite how rough his voice was from screaming, “It’s okay.  Let’s— let’s just get out of here, yea?”  He tried to smile but it pulled at the tender, swollen skin of his face and turned into a grimace.

“Yea! Yea, of course.” Sam was like a puppy in his enthusiasm to do whatever Dean said. 

So Dean let his brother help him up from the ground, and he let his brother support his weight as they made their way back to the Impala, and he let his brother drive them some place safe.

_____

“Fuck! That hurts!”

“Stop being such a baby!”

Dean was  _not_  a baby.  He had just been Lucifer’s punching bag not two hours ago and god damn it, that shit  _stung_.

What he said was, “Bitch.”

Sam gave him a rueful smirk, obliging with his usual comeback of ‘Jerk’, and returned his attention to the side of Dean’s face that was worse off. 

They found a dinky little motel miles and miles away from ground zero, Dean snoozing in the passenger’s seat while Sam drove faster than he ever had in his life.   The world was a mess that neither Winchester cared to think too carefully on, and the motel they found matched.  But there was no one behind the counter and the place wasn’t covered in blood or other questionable stains – none that weren’t expected, anyway – so they considered it a suitable spot to sleep.

Now Sam had Dean perched on the edge of one mattress while he attempted to clean out the aftermath of his – no, Lucifer’s handiwork.  It was difficult because his hands still hadn’t stopped shaking, and he was getting a headache.  He told himself it was stress and to calm down.

In reality, Sam was just cleaning Dean’s face off.  There was an obscene amount of blood covering his skin –Sam had to consciously remind himself several times that head wounds bleed freely – but it all came from some small superficial cuts and scrapes.  He had found a bottle of Bactine in the first aid kit that hadn’t expired yet, along with some prescription painkillers that had only expired last month.  He’d had Dean chase the pills down while Sam cleaned him up.  Obviously the meds hadn’t kicked in yet, what with all the complaining Dean was doing. 

“If you don’t shut up,” threatened Sam, “I’m going to get the hydrogen peroxide.”

Dean made a face, but hushed.  He couldn’t help it if he hissed at a particularly nasty cut every now and then, though. 

He watched Sam’s expression as he worked, trying hard not to pull away when Sam moved into his space.  Dean’s depth perception was so off now that he couldn’t quite tell where exactly Sam was in relation to him.  It was as if everything in the room had shifted just a centimeter to the side; subtle, but profound in the way Dean interacted with the world now.  And when Sam did move, it always seemed to happen too fast and made Dean want to jerk away. 

He wanted to just close his good eye and be done with it entirely, but he was too keyed into Sam’s subtle tells, noting the different frowns and their meanings; sometimes it was a pout of sympathy, other times a grimace of guilt, and now, as Sam dabbed at his left eyebrow, a deep frown of concern. 

“What?” asked Dean.

Sam shook his head, worrying at his bottom lip as he dabbed more of the antiseptic to Dean’s brow, his cheekbone (“Ow!”), the soft and tender skin beneath his eye.

With a sigh, Sam said, “You’ll have to flush out that eye, Dean.  I can’t really do much for it with this.” He waved the bottle of Bactine sheepishly. 

“Right,” said Dean, “In the morning.  I’m beat.”  He started to stand up and then glanced at his brother. “You done?”

Sam nodded, looking down – his guilty habit. 

Dean knew what he felt guilty for.  He just wasn’t going to tolerate it, let alone acknowledge it.

“Good,” Dean said, gruffer than he meant to.  Standing up, he reached out and grasped Sam’s shoulder.  “You should get some sleep, too.”

Again, a wordless nod was his only response.

Sam’s silence continued as they changed clothes and tucked themselves into their beds.  Dean found it so strange, to lie there in bed, listening to his brother’s breathing – because it was the only thing to be heard.  There were no cars rumbling past, no semis wailing, no amorous neighbors to be angry at, not even the hoot of an owl.  It was chilling how silent the world had become. 

Dean wondered if perhaps he had jinxed himself in thinking of only them surviving. 

It was only an hour or two after they had laid down, pain meds having finally kicked in and making him warm and fuzzy, when he heard Sam rustle out of bed.  Then the covers of his own bed were pulled back so his brother could climb in, pressing up tight against his side. 

“Dean,” Sam whispered, soft and reverent.  His arm circled around the small of Dean’s back and his lips pressed against his shoulder.  “I’m so sorry…”  The depth of sorrow behind his words made Dean’s heart ache.

Turning over, careful of his battered face more out of a forming habit than pain, Dean moved so he was on his side instead of him stomach, facing Sam.  He tried to smile, just a little, but the skin was too swollen and tight to allow it.  Instead, he reached out to cup Sam’s jaw.  No words; just a gentle thumb rubbing back and forth across the stubble there. 

Sam frowned, eyes obviously wet in the dim moonlight filtering through the curtains.  It reminded Dean of everything they had lost in this war, and he moved his hand past Sam’s face and around his shoulders, pulling him closer.  His brother collapsed against him, curling into the safety his arms offered. 

“I’m so, so sorry… God, D-Dean, I nev-ver th-thought that th-this w-w-would—,” gasped Sam, hiccupping through each word as he sobbed, wracked with full-bodied shudders

Dean pressed a soft kiss to Sam’s brow, pulling him even closer, desperate for the contact, for the warmth that was his brother, alive and breathing.  They were both here, both survivors of something beyond comprehension.  God help them, they would get through this.

“Shh,” Dean hushed him, whispering against his skin.  “It’s okay, Sam.  We’re gonna be okay.”

Sam shook his head, nose wiping wet against the fabric of his older brother’s shirt.  Dean would have teased him about it, but his own eyes were so wet at this point that he really had no right to give him a hard time.  They were both falling apart at the seams, adrenaline and denial finally giving out and leaving them raw in the aftermath of something catastrophic. 

“B-but,” insisted Sam, sniffling harshly and shaking his head where it lay against Dean’s chest, “You g-got hurt and C-C-Cas too, and B-B—oh god, I killed—“

“No,” Dean growled, voice suddenly too loud in the pressing silence of their room.  He didn’t care if Sam winced at the noise, he was going to drill this into his little brother’s head if it was the last thing he did.  Reaching down and gripping the sides of Sam’s face, he pulled so that Sam had to meet his gaze.  “No,  _you_  didn’t do that.   _Lucifer_ killed our friends.   _Lucifer_ caused all this.   _Lucifer_ beat me up—“and Christ, Sam  _whimpered_  when he said that, “— _you_ didn’t do anything, Sam.” 

He stared at his brother, willing him to believe.  It was hard to see in the dark with only one functioning eye, but he could make out that Sam’s face was almost as much a wreck as his own: face twisted in a grimace of sorrow, eyes wet and streaming, and his mouth set in a desperate frown. 

Looking up at the ceiling, at the walls, at anything but Dean, Sam whispered, “Yea.  I didn’t do  _anything_.  I couldn’t get a grip on Lucifer, and I couldn’t stop him from pummeling you, a-and I-I c-c-couldn’t—“He had to stop then, breath lost in the sobs he couldn’t stop. 

Dean shook his head and pulled his brother to him again, both of them curling into the other until there was no distinction between where one began and the other ended.  It was just Them.  Them against a world of emptiness that they had caused.


	2. Displaced

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Written for a fill in my hc_bingo card: Loss of home/shelter.  
> 

II. Displaced 

They stayed at the hotel for two days – two days too long.  The Winchesters were gypsies, restless without a destination in mind.  Granted, after the apocalypse wiped the Earth clean, there was very little destination to be found.  But that didn’t stop the boys from packing up and hitting the road again, itchy to get behind the Impala’s wheel.

She was their home, the one solid rock in their lives.  There were times they had nearly lost her, but in the end, she was always there.  The boys had patched her up time and time again, making sure she stuck around.  They took care of her as if she were a living, breathing human being – she was always well-fed, always clean, pampered, loved.  She was family.  She was home.

At first Dean had insisted on driving, stating he could see just fine with one eye, thankyouverymuch.  Two hours later found Sam driving the Impala with Dean a brooding mess in the passenger seat.

“Stop scratching,” Sam urged him quietly.

Dean grumbled but moved his hand away from his face.

The cuts, scrapes, and swelling from Lucifer’s beating had all started to heal, fading into a mix of thin scabs and yellow-green bruises.  There was one nasty bruise underneath his left eye, however, where the bone had more than likely fractured, but Sam was helpless to do anything about it; it didn’t seem to be causing any trouble anyway, except for some tenderness and an off-putting asymmetry in his face. 

His eye hadn’t improved.  It was still a swollen mass of tissue, red and puffy with infection.  Even though Dean did a good job of hiding it, Sam knew he woke up in the morning with the thing crusted shut, and it oozed a steady stream of guck throughout the day. 

Worse yet, driving had proven that Dean’s eyesight was limited now.  He could barely open his left eye, let alone see out of it, and with that complication came a loss of peripheral vision and depth perception.  Not the best combination for driving, or for hunting.

Which was the first thing Dean had started talking about when they got back on the road.  Sam wanted to find survivors, but Dean was convinced there must still be big baddies roaming the planet, right?  So they should go in search of said monsters and start blasting (hacking/slashing/mauling/whatever) them away. 

Sam was disinclined to agree.

If there were people to be found, however, they made a point of being scarce.  Luckily for Sam, monsters seemed to be playing it quiet, too.  So that just left him, the Impala – who was running out of fuel, by the way – and Dean – who needed medical attention, like yesterday. 

As the little red line for the gas gauge dropped steadily downward, so too did Sam’s hope.

______  
 

They made it to South Dakota, but not Sioux Falls.

The quiet in the car during those last few miles was drastically different than the comfortable silence that preceded it.    Dean was tense, helpless anger rolling off him in waves so strong they were nearly tangible.  Unable to think of a solution, Sam sat just as helpless behind the steering wheel, worrying his lip as he mentally asked her for one more mile, one more, honey, just one more…

Eventually, though, the Impala gave up.  Dean kept her so well-fed, Sam was almost positive he’d never seen the gauge drop below the half-way mark.  She was a good car, and she put up a good fight, but she couldn’t run on fumes.

Coasting slowly, engine horribly silent, the Impala didn’t even have enough vapors left in the gas tank to keep her going.  She just… stopped.

Sam expected Dean to start cursing, to yell and scream and kick at whatever he could (including Sam), but nothing like that happened.  It was hard to tell exactly, since Dean’s left side was facing him, but Sam was pretty certain that Dean was staring at the tape deck.  He was motionless, not saying a word, not even breathing loudly, and just staring at the damned tape deck.

“Dean,” Sam whispered, “We… We’re gonna have to walk it the rest of the—“

“I know that!”

Ah, there was that aimless rage Sam had so expected. Dean hadn’t taken his eyes away from the car, but he shouted loud enough to make Sam’s ears pop.

Sam watched him for a few moments, weighing different scenarios in his mind, different words of sympathy or encouragement.  In the end, Sam just nodded and got out of the car. 

He popped the trunk and started to sort through their duffels, through the supplies they had left under the false floor.  Food; they definitely needed food.  And the blankets, as many of those as they could carry – early May was warm enough during the day this far north, but at night they would be freezing.  Sam hesitated with their weapons though – should they bother bringing the guns with them?  They’d be handy to have, but ammo was going to be scarce…

Dean startled Sam out of his thoughts, coming round the end of the Impala and leaning against her taillight.  He didn’t say anything, just watched as Sam sorted through their belongings, picking this and that out of everything that made up their lives.

Sam stopped, frowning and huffing in that little way of his that Dean was sure he wasn’t even aware of.  Without warning, Sam overturned their bags and started sorting again.  Dean asked if he could help and, naturally, Sam shook his head, worrying his lower lip as he worked things out in his head.   _Control freak_ , Dean thought warmly. 

He left Sam to his devices and walked around the Impala, fingertips trailing over her sun-warmed skin.  He could still remember the way his stomach had dropped when Dad handed over the keys, smiling brilliantly like he never did and looking so proud… Dean never imagined he would see that emotion behind his father’s eyes. 

The first thing Dean had done was yell for Sammy and dash outside, hopping into the car only moments before Sam joined him.  They had chattered like girls at each other, overcome with excitement.  Then they had driven around the block a dozen times, maybe more, and only stopped because Dad called Dean’s cell phone and told him to stop being a child about it.

Dean smiled to himself now, sliding into the backseat and closing the door behind him.  The scent of leather and Sam’s shampoo and four-day-old take-out bags brought a wash of calm over him every time he breathed it in – except for this time.  Now he felt nothing but sorrow, could feel his mouth twist in an effort to make the emotion real.  He wiped a hand over his face, careful to keep his thumb off his broken cheekbone, and leaned forward so that his head could rest against the back of the passenger’s seat. 

“Oh, baby girl,” he sighed.

They had kissed for the first time in this car, he and Sam.  He couldn’t quite remember if it had been the summer before or after his junior year.  When he had the keys and they went on their first hunt without Dad, he and Sam had christened her as theirs in the backseat… and the hood, and the trunk, and… well.

Gingerly sliding his body over the backrest and into the front seat, Dean put his hands on the wheel for what he knew would be the last time.  With his fingers resting on the worn leather, he couldn’t keep it in anymore.  The first sob choked him, coughing its way out.  After that, it was just a slow-motion train wreck. 

Tears ran freely down his cheeks, slipping into the dips and creases of his skin.  As his mouth broke open in a silent wail, it tugged at all the bruises and scrapes, but he didn’t care.  He needed that little bit of pain, needed to feel this all now before he had to turn and face his brother again, join him in walking away. 

Dean whimpered, sounding like a wounded animal, and gripped at the steering wheel like it was a lifeline.  He sucked in a harsh breath and coughed, choking on the thick spit that had piled up in his mouth.  Christ, he didn’t want this to happen.  He couldn’t let her go. 

The passenger door creaked open, making Dean jump.  As his brother slid into the car, Dean turned away to hide his tears.  Fucking Sam, couldn’t just leave him alone to weep, had to come and witness his brother fall to pieces. 

“Dean,” and the thick, wrecked sound of it was enough to make Dean turn back around to face him.

Sam was a mess too, face wet with tears and his mouth pulled tight in an effort to hold back.  Dean had barely moved to reach for him before Sam was closing the distance between them.  They held each other tight and sobbed into one another’s shoulders. 

Just as Dean would start to think he was all cried out, he would look along the dashboard and be hit with another wave of loss and sorrow and helplessness.  He would have to turn his head, muffling his wails in the fabric of Sam’s shirt.    

 “I can’t do this, Sammy,” he whispered into the soft curls framing Sam’s neck, voice a high-pitched mess.

Sinking into the circle of Sam’s arms, he could feel the weight of Sam’s chin against the top of his head.  His brother wasshaking – always did, even as a kid, when he was struck with an emotion too powerful to contain.  It made Dean hold on tighter, grabbing fistfuls of the back of Sam’s shirt so hard he lost feeling in his fingers.

Eventually the endorphins kicked in, first Dean then Sam, calming them into a blissful state of apathy.  Thinking about the Impala brought a pang of hurt to Dean’s chest, the kind of hurt that was sharp enough and deep enough to steal his breath, but it was distant now and couldn’t harm him.  It would hurt again later, but not now. 

 “W-we should get go-going,” said Sam, his breathing slowly steadying itself back to a normal rhythm.  “If-if we head out n-now, we… we could get there by n-nightfall.” 

Nodding, Dean slowly untangled himself from his brother.  An awkward silence settled over them as they both took a moment to gain their composure.  When neither one of them wanted to move, Dean leaned over and pressed a chaste kiss to Sam’s lips. 

“Well, come on,” he said. 

They took their time collecting their things, carrying the blankets and weapons that wouldn’t fit in their duffels.  Dean couldn’t stop touching the Impala, brushing his fingertips over her in reverence.  Instead of touching, Sam’s gaze combed over every curve, every dip, every sleek inch of her.  Even with the hundreds of memories they already had, both brothers were desperate to commit  _her_ to memory.  By the time they finally walked away, their eyes were still wet and it was difficult to keep from looking back over their shoulders.

Just five miles north of Canton, the Winchesters left their one and only home behind.


	3. Darkened

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Written for a fill in my hc_bingo card: Burns.  
> (this is where it gets explicit -- i.e. sex happens)

III. Darkened   
  
  


It was no real secret that, despite having always tried to emulate their father, Dean really took after Mary.  He had her eyes, the same baby-fine hair (although he got the color from John), and her fair skin.   He was quick to freckle, the first to burn, and the last to see it fade.

Sam – the lucky bastard that he was – took after John; always managed a deep, even tan.  So when the noonday sun was high over their heads as they walked down the asphalt toward Sioux Falls, Sam didn’t think twice about shucking off the many layers he wore.  Dean, however, was less than pleased to be out in the open with little more than a t-shirt to protect him, but the heat under his jacket and over-shirt was unbearable.   After less than thirty-minutes in the open sunlight, Dean’s skin was burning.  He ignored it, of course, rubbing at the backs of his arms or the top of his head when it got to be too much.

His eyesight, however, had not seemed to improve since they left Stull Cemetery.  His left eye was less swollen than it had been, but his vision was clouded, offering him little more than a window of white, hazy expanse.  He was squinting his good eye against the bright sun, and that left him with very little to see.  He was starting to get a headache.

“Where’d you put that Tylenol?” Dean finally asked after another hour.  He hated giving in, but it felt like there were very angry hammers inside his skull and the sensation of his skin shrinking like baked plastic was not helping at all.

They stopped for a moment so they could put their things down and Sam could find the first aid kit in the duffel he carried.  Once again, Dean felt a pang of hurt at how the Impala was no longer with them, abandoned miles down the road.  He cleared his throat against the emotion.

“What’s wrong?” Sam asked.

Dean shrugged.  “Just got a headache.  It’s too bright out.”

Sam gave him a long, calculated look. 

Dean quirked his good eyebrow at him, leering.

With a much-put-upon sigh, Sam rolled his eyes and shook his head.  Two bottles – one of Tylenol and the other of water – were thrust into Dean's hands while Sam kept rummaging through the main compartment in his bag.

As Dean was handing back the water, Sam pulled an old gray bandana out of his bag.  “Here,” he said.

It was Dean's turn to give Sam a long look.

Sam explained, “The headache’s probably because of your eye.  You’re photophobic—“

“I’m not afraid of anything.”

“Not ‘scared’ phobic,” Sam’s tone made Dean hackle.  “It just means that you’re oversensitive to the light.  Typical stuff when you have eye trauma.  This is just to help until we find some shade.”  Sam smiled softly, holding the bandana out to his brother.

“And this is…?”

“A patch.”

“Sonuva…” Dean groaned.  Sam’s expression, however, was a mix of concern and sympathy – an expression Dean had grown particularly familiar with recently.  It begged for Dean to humor him, and Dean wasn’t one to say no.  With an angry huff, he nodded his consent.

Sam helped him tie it on, folding the fabric so it was thicker where it covered up his eye but still lay flat over the skin.  Dean would never admit it, but the cover did help ease the tension in his head.

He still made Sam promise no pirate jokes, or else certain pieces of his anatomy would be compromised.

“Scout’s honor,” replied Sam, saluting.

Dean rolled his eyes.  “You were never a boy scout.”

“Eh,” Sam pulled a face thinking about it, “Close enough.”

_____________

They made it to Bobby's in good time.  The sun was only just starting to set as they walked into the junkyard, bathing the sky in a sickly yellow-orange that gently bled into pink.  They were slow making their way up the stairs onto the porch.  Sam was right behind his brother as they reached the door and he could see his own tension mirrored in the taut line of Dean’s shoulders. 

Dean’s hand hovered mid-way to the handle, trembling and unable to open it.  Part of Sam was waiting for the door to swing open and give way to a gruff greeting, warm hugs and cool beers.  The other part of him knew all of that was gone.  Sam’s heart ached as the word ‘idjit’ bubbled into his consciousness, followed swiftly by the feeling of his own hand – no,  _Lucifer’s_  hand reaching out and snapping Bobby’s neck. 

Bobby was  _gone_.  They had  _buried_ him.

Unable to stand the anxiety any longer, Sam moved closer and nudged his shoulder against Dean’s.  His bother glanced at him, shook his head and twisted the handle.

Sam wasn’t sure what he had expected really, if he had been anticipating some physical embodiment of the empty chasm left in Bobby’s wake or perhaps a corpse to stand there and point an accusing finger at him –  _you killed me; you were too weak to stop it; how could you let that happen; you were like a son._  

But everything was just so  _ordinary_.

Sam half expected there to be beer in the fridge, no doubt their favorite brand, or the spare mattress to be made up for them already, sheets cleaned and smelling of old books and Bobby's laundry detergent.  The house was still and silent and undisturbed.  Even the study, Sam noticed as they walked through the rooms, was cleaned up; a few books piled on the desk, some loose leaf papers strewn about, but otherwise clean.

It all seemed so wrong.

He nudged his brother’s shoulder again and murmured, “Come on.  Let’s clear some space before we lose daylight.”

_________________________________________

Dean didn’t start to notice it until they were dragging the mattress downstairs – the smarting itch that seemed to come from beneath his skin.  Even a gust of air or the gentle flex of muscle could set off an immediate burn that lingered for minutes afterward.  It was all over his arms and his neck and his face, anywhere that hadn’t been covered by clothing.

They slid the mattress into the large empty space they had cleared in front of the hearth.  The sun had just started to set and already the air had chilled.  Within a few hours they would be thankful for the fireplace.

Even so, Dean couldn’t say he was completely comfortable sleeping in Bobby’s house when they had buried him only just forty-eight hours prior.  Glancing at Sam’s face as he straightened some sheets out over their bed, Dean could see he wasn’t alone in his discomfort.

He dropped two pillows down onto the mattress, getting Sam’s attention, and whispered, “You okay?”

Sam gazed up at him for a while before finally nodding, biting back some kind of emotion.

Dean nodded as well and set about getting the fire going.  Even as he was throwing logs into the hearth, he hissed as the tough bark rubbed against the heated skin of his wrist.  He leaned over toward his bag and grabbed an over-shirt, hoping to protect his skin from irritants, but as the fabric brushed over his arms and the collar rubbed at his neck, he realized it was a bad idea. 

The flare of pain ignited every nerve in the area, seeming to spread like wildfire across his body.  His chest ached in sympathy of his neck and forearms.  It itched but stung, begging to be soothed at the same time that it screamed for everything to cease touching it. 

In all honesty, Dean had suffered worse sunburns and he had certainly suffered worse injuries, but it was damn uncomfortable.  Sunburns were just annoying.

“Dean?” Looking over his shoulder, he met Sam’s concerned gaze.  “You okay?”

No use in lying because he was certain Sam had already heard the little hisses of discomfort he hadn’t been able to hold in.  “Yeah,” he said sullenly, “Just a sunburn.  I'll be fine.”  

“You should have said something.  We could have stopped and gotten sunscreen or aloe or—“

“Damn it, Sam!” He hadn’t meant to lose his temper.  He really shouldn’t have anyway; Sam was only trying to be helpful.  His fingers closed in a fist as he grit his teeth and rode out the wave of anger that had built up in him.  He was just so sick of things going wrong.  He had lost nearly everything in just a few hours’ time.  He couldn’t see out of his left eye and didn’t expect to ever be able to again (Sam was optimistic but Dean could see the lie behind it).  Sam was a brooding, guilt-ridden mess, barely able to stand looking at Dean let alone speak to him – his mother-henning just now was probably the most he had said since the fallout.  Bobby and Cas and the Impala were all gone now… Hell, with his eye the way it was, he was pretty sure there was no way he would be able to hunt anymore.  Sam was literally the only thing Dean had left. 

Turning so that he was facing his brother, Dean frowned to show he was sorry and said, “I’d like for something to not go wrong, y’know?  Can something just go right for once?”

Sam grinned derisively and looked away for a moment, shaking his head.  When he looked back at Dean, there was nothing but pure cynicism in his expression.  “We’re Winchesters.”

___________________

They weren’t asleep, but they were trying to pretend they were.  It was late and they should have been sleeping and the fire was keeping everything warm and cozy, but neither boy could sleep.  Sam stared up at the ceiling as the fire crackled and his brother shifted constantly beside him.

With a great huff, Dean pushed himself up and sat on his feet, staring angrily down at his pillow.  “I can’t sleep.  This is ridiculous.”

“What’s wrong?”

“Everything’s just… it just hurts.”  Somehow, Sam could tell he meant more than just the sunburn. 

Sam sat up, too, closing the space between them, and kissed him gently.   Dean had gotten a light burn across his forehead and the bridge of his nose, but luckily most of his face had avoided that displeasure.  His eye was still sore though, and no doubt his cheekbone hadn’t completely healed yet, so Sam was careful of where he put his lips and hands. 

Dean sighed softly, pressing into the kiss and deepening it.  The feel of Dean’s tongue against his own had Sam moaning, and he wrapped his arm around his older brother, coaxing him into lying on his back.  Dean was resistant at first but it really was the best position, considering his back had been spared and only his neck had been burnt: less surface area to agitate. 

Sam knew his brother was a belly-sleeper, they were opposites even in their sleep positions, and Dean would never be able to fall asleep on his back.  However, he also knew that Dean conked out not three minutes after an orgasm, regardless of his position.  It was actually kind of adorable, but Sam would never admit that aloud.

Easing himself over his brother, Sam trailed kisses along Dean’s collarbone, teasing one nipple as he went, his fingers rubbing over its twin.  Dean groaned and he rolled his hips as if the sheer friction of his briefs was enough. 

Sam continued his languorous trail along Dean’s midriff, teasing ticklish spots as he went past them.  His hands trailed up along Dean’s thighs, gripping the muscle tightly and pressing deep into the tissue.  Reaching his hips, Sam eased Dean's briefs down and pressed the heel of his palm all the way along the length of Dean’s hard prick, wrapping his fingers around the head and squeezing gently. 

Gasping, Dean bucked up into his hand.  He glanced down at Sam and asked breathlessly, “Shit, Sammy.  Here?”

Sam could only smirk as he opened his mouth and ran his tongue along the length of his cock in answer; as much as it hurt to admit, it was just them in the empty house now. 

Dean moaned loudly, his whole body rolling in one fluid movement and pushing his hips closer to Sam’s lips.  Sam spat on his hand and rubbed the slick of it all along the head and then down, working his brother’s cock in slow pulls. 

Dean sighed, tugging at Sam’s hair just because he could.  It made Sam smile a little to know he could make Dean feel good and, if his plan worked out right, bring him some relief from the sunburn.  If there was anyone who deserved to burn, it was Sam.  In fact, he’d counted on it.  When he said yes to Lucifer, he had expected the angel to ride him like a two-dollar whore and then ditch him somewhere in the ninth circle.

He had come to, though, looking up at the ruined face of his brother.  Dean still carried the scars of that beating, of the Devil’s handiwork.  Sam couldn't help the guilt he felt when he saw the ruined lines of Dean's face.  He had been weak, he had let Lucifer in, and he had played his part in the apocalypse.  In all that had gone wrong, he was the common denominator.

In Sam's mind, fair or not, that meant this was all his fault.

“Sammy,” Dean moaned softly, biting at his bottom lip and rolling his hips in desperation.

It was all the pleading Sam needed and he slipped Dean’s cock into his mouth, sucking hard while his hand worked along the base and his free hand slid over Dean’s balls and behind them, pressing his fingers against the warm patch of skin hidden there. The small, broken sounds and the loud, creative swears his brother made as Sam worked the flesh further into his mouth were maddeningly hot. 

Dean cried out when Sam pulled his hand away from Dean’s cock and slid his mouth all the way down.  Sam’s throat fluttered and he held back a breath.  He could feel the way Dean’s prick swelled as Sam swallowed him down, pressing his tongue roughly against the bottom of his cock.

“Oh shit …”  Gasping, Dean’s fingers twisted Sam’s hair tightly, making pain prickle minutely along his scalp.

Sam pulled back, gasping through the reflexive twitch of his throat, and smiled up at his brother.  He pressed back down, sucking more and more in with every bob of his head until his nose was pressed into the thick thatch of curls at the base of Dean’s cock again and he could feel his brother’s thighs tense with the effort of keeping his hips steady.

Sam loved his brother like this – strung out and desperate, panting and cursing, lost in the haze of sex.  Letting Dean’s cock slip out of his mouth again, Sam worked his hand up and around the head as his other hand rubbed slow, deep circles behind his balls.  Dean’s hips tilted, begging silently.  Sam pulled his hand away long enough to suck one finger wet. 

He pressed his lips tight around Dean’s cock and kept his hand snug against them as he moved his mouth along the length, keeping a steady rhythm that continued to grow faster as his brother moaned louder.  He let his other hand slip lower, working his wet finger into the crease of Dean’s ass so he could rub teasingly at his hole. 

Dean whimpered at that, hips tilting encouragingly.  “Sa-am…,” he gasped, voice wavering. 

Twisting his wrist as he pulled up, Sam worked Dean’s cock harder, tongue pressing tight against the bottom as he went.  He let his finger press against Dean’s hole and found it relaxed enough to slip in an inch. 

“Oh fuck, oh fuck… ” Dean gasped in broken segments and his legs stretched, trying to gain some kind of leverage.

Knowing his tells all too well, Sam slipped his mouth nearly all the way down and swallowed everything as Dean let go with a loud groan.  Dean’s hips rolled, pressing his cock deeper into Sam’s willing mouth, spilling hot down his brother’s throat. 

As the tension drained out of Dean’s body, Sam licked and sucked until Dean whimpered and pushed at his shoulder.  He let go of Dean’s cock and slid Dean’s briefs back up his hips.  He turned away to add another log to the fire and then pulled the covers up over them as he lay down next to his brother. 

Even in the dim light of the fire, Dean was beautiful.  His cheekbones were mismatched, his left eye was still puffy and his skin was covered in barely-healed bruises.  Sam saw none of this.  What he saw were the freckles covering the bridge of Dean's nose and cheeks and his chin, everywhere; all of which stood out now against the flush of his skin.  The flickering flames mixed with the shadows to turn his eyes a rich jade.  But most important of all was the fact that Dean was  _here_ , smiling in post-coital contentment with his arms stretched out above his head.  Sam couldn’t help himself when he leaned forward and kissed him goodnight.

His brother didn’t seem to mind.


End file.
